


Letters from a Wolf

by FunkyClown



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bran is still not himself but is trying, Bran isn't king of the seven kingdoms; no one is, Bran warging out all the time, Canon Divergent, Character Study, F/M, Slow Burn, a girl and her dog but a twist, confessions of feelings and love, ex-friends to kinda friends again to "maybe I feel something for you shut up", hurt/comfort elements, kinda a love triangle??? I dont really like love triangles so it's not a huge thing, kinda a slow burn but it aint going to take 30 chapters, meera is rightfully kinda mad at bran, meera is supportive so much she needs the world, not an AU but very canon divergent in some elements after season 6, set post series in a canon divergent ending, sex stuff happens, virgin sex but its the dude this time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:59:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyClown/pseuds/FunkyClown
Summary: For my flesh had turned to furand my thoughts, they surely wereTurned to instinct and obedience to GodBrandon Stark isn't Brandon Stark, even after his visions lessen in strength. Even so, he manages a way to contact Meera Reed. Something is pulling him to her, something he does not fully understand.





	1. Chapter 1

Globs of spit rolled off his tongue as he ran, his chest heaving in air. His paws sink beneigh the snow and erupt upward in a flurry of white as he keeps running. Winter winds claw against his face, making his nose and eyes water, but beneigh his coat his body stays warm. He ran for weeks at a pace that ached his legs; time was no more valuable to him than dust, but was of near greatest importance for all others, so that he must respect. As payment to the wolf, he robbed farmers of their animals. He would tear into sheep fat so hot it melted the snow, and this would fuel the wolf until he could return. Months of travel went by on his four paws. Soon the deep trenches of snow turned to thinner blankets that covered stiff frozen mud. His nose to the ground, he warmed the earth with his breath and took in the scent of mineral rich mud.

It was on his fourth month of travel when he reached the Neck. Even during winter the fog remained over the swamp, puffing out in clouds from the shifting of the earth. Frost that lay on everything was disrupted by filters of warmed air that hung dew on his fur that would crisp over as soon as he left its radius. He tread carefully; the earth here was unpredictable and any could sink through if unfortunate enough to step in the wrong spot. Waterfowl scattered from his path as he made his way deeper into the swamp. The smell of the swamp alone was enough to grab his memories. His private memories, not anyone else's. It was the specific stink of men he sought for, and amongst that the specific stink of a particular person, a woman. 

Each splash and rustle perked his ears. It was a shout through the moss hung trees that caught his attention. He followed the noise, slinking his body through the frosted dew of undergrowth downwind. His view showed him a group of six humans. His human mind retraced what he had learned so long ago from his Maester; the sigil, the wear, these were crannogmen from House Reed. The sudden sway from his wolf sense nearly cut short his thoughts. On the fog was a scent that was intensely familiar, the scent he had journeyed for. Meera was there. He could barely make her out from his position, but her dark curled hair stood out to him. She talked in low voice to her hunting companions as they checked the fish traps. He raised his wolf head, no action planned in his mind, when in a blink he saw her no longer.

“Lord Stark,” Podrick rapted gently on his chamber door. 

Bran’s eyes were back at his window overlooking King’s Landing. “Come in.” 

“Lord Stark, the Democratic Council asks for your presence on the coming matter of assigning duties for the King’s Guard.” Podrick stood back in the doorway. 

“It is a matter they should conclude themselves.” Bran spoke with no added emotion. “I can not be the constant deciding factor of their choices. I am not even elected on the Council.”

“Very well my Lord, should I tell them you won’t be present?” 

“No. I will go.” Bran’s wish to be uninvolved in such trivial concerns did not outweigh his loyalty to all he had come to build. Time would come when the Council didn’t constantly seek his advice, and that time would be soon. After all, his visions had been not as stable as they were before. 

He could wait for Meera. It took a year for him to find Nymeria and her pack; took him further months of waiting as her litter of pup grew older, for when her largest offspring was strong enough to travel. How long Meera could wait for him, he was unsure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Bran" finally meets Meera face to face again.

“Leaving so soon?” Dory Greenwood mused.

Meera glanced over to him as she reached the door of Greywater Watch. Behind him, the festivities honoring the old gods continued; the smell of salt from fine roasted birds mingled in the air with the rattling of bog-tree masks and skirts on dancers that swayed to the reed pipes. 

“I want to be alone just for a moment.” She could predict Dory’s disappointment, but she didn’t have the stomach for the celebration. 

“Keep an eye for the wolf. Been hearing of it stealing game from traps.” His effort to shield his despondency was at least a good show. When all she responded with was a short nod, he continued. “Some of the Marsh Seers think it’s a message from the old gods.” 

“Doubtful it comes to us from any gods.” She mumbled, leaving the main meeting hall. 

Meera didn’t intend to be back that night. Part of her wished Dory would follow, another part wanting to forget her obligation to him. She walked across the floating bridges made of logs connecting the spires of the gigantic crannog until she reached one unlikely to draw anyone else. It was furthest from the warm pockets of air that wafted up from the bog, but curling her legs closer to her body was a fair price for solitude. She leaned her head back on the reinforced wax thatch walls with a sigh.

Then, beneath the chirping of toads and frogs, another song caught her attention. It was was a foreign tongue in these swamps; high and clear with an echo that reverberated on the mucky water. It stopped. She sat there in suspense. Again the howl spoke through the trees, and she knew the direction. Meera scrambled to one of the small scout canoes and pushed it out from the dock. She hastened her paddle through the water, the call guiding her through the reeds and roots, louder and louder. 

It was abruptly silenced. Her canoe was alongside a thick mudded bank dense with trees, and she searched between the bush for the source. She desperately needed to see. With only the sound of shivering reeds, a wolf’s pointed muzzle appeared before her, inches from her face. Immediately her mind fell into defense, instinctively grabbing for the knife kept beneath her coat. It answered by breathing a puff of hot humid air on her cheeks, unmoving. Deep within it’s yellow eyes, she felt something beyond wolf. An energy that was familiar and brought her back to before this winter had began. 

“Bran?” She asked, her voice impossibly loud even as a whisper. 

The wolf dipped it’s head low, then raised it up again to her face. 

“How can you prove it?” Meera tried to harden her voice. 

The wolf’s head ducked back between the brush behind it, producing a rabbit with skin ripped sloppily from it’s meat. 

Meera furrowed her brow, tightening her lips. She felt her eyes water in tears fueled by either anger or happiness. “Why did you find me?” 

The wolf did nothing, looking, only holding her eyes. _That is also the question I hold._

“Of course you can’t answer.” Meera scowled sullenly, “You come to me like this because you have no answers to tell or you just have no want to tell them.” 

The wolf huffed through its nose. _I’ve never had any answers beyond what others have taken as one. I can’t control that anymore than you can._

“I don’t want to see you, Bran.” As she said it, she knew her full candidness wasn’t being shown. It was her who had boated out to see him, she could have ignored the howl. But it was him who had brought a dire wolf down to the Neck. 

The wolf cocked it’s head, a slight whine from his throat. It was a noise he hadn’t expected, but something in a pocket within his mind stirred with a feeling. He had remembered what the feeling was, but he had not felt it in a long time. Dejection, dejection that was reflected in Meera’s face as well. And he saw anger as well. 

“I don’t know what else I can offer you.” She pushed her paddle off the mud shore, drifting her canoe away. The wolf kept it’s gaze on her. Grimacing, she steered her canoe so he couldn’t meet her eyes. Meera knew it was absurd for a wolf to ask her to stay, just as absurd as it was for Brandon Stark to ask her to stay.


	3. Chapter 3

The wolf padded through the swamp, carefully balancing on the tree roots to avoid testing the unstable ground. Bran had barely slept over the last couple months; he needed to maintain his seeck without interruption, which led him to spend most of his dusk and dawn as the wolf. As such, he often would have to avoid crossing paths with dawn hunting patrols. 

“Leave some of the fish,” He heard a man say. It was a Greenwood man, a family that seemed to accompany the Reeds frequently. “That’s for the wolf.” 

“And why for the wolf?” Scoffed another. 

“The Peats say it’s from the old gods. Both them and the Marsh’s have been leaving out offerings, and you don’t see their thatch leaking.” 

“Their frog cages had been a feast for the lizard-lions the past few weeks.” Meerna spoke in an exasperated, but light-hearted tone. 

Bran pricked his ears to the sound of Meera’s voice. Her aroma- damp skin, rich mud, and spice- had become easy for him to pick up, which made it easy to avoid her. Once again, the mysterious pocket in his mind came to the forefront; it didn’t want him to avoid her, it wanted him to relieve her anger towards him. However, if she didn’t wish to see him, he would not bother. He slunk deeper into the underscrub. 

As he carried on in contemplation, Bran’s mind was hit by a wave of awe. Around him swayed the branches of unknown trees, trees he had not ventured through before. His breath slowed as he walked through the mossy trees, the feeling in his head growing stronger. He nearly lost vision of where he was going and was guided by the pull alone. And there he saw it. Surrounded by reeds grew little more than a sapling, with a trunk barely thicker than a man’s grasp. But it was no doubt a weirwood tree.

This was what he was searching for: a young tree of the old gods. Throwing his head back, he raised his voice in a howl. Meera was the first he must tell. As a member of House Reed, it was her who would have the influence over the the Neck. And it was her who knew who he was. 

He trotted quickly, opening his mouth to fill his palette of all the smells in the swamp. The scent of the Reed fishermen grew stronger and stronger as he retraced his steps. Bran reached the edge of the bog water, where he had last heard Meera. 

“Dory was right, you do come back for the fish.” Bran turned his head to Meera. She was kneeling on a rock, canoe tied off to a tree with a long knife aimed to the water. “It is Bran this time, or am I just a fool talking to a wolf?” 

_Had she been trying to talk to him before, when he was not warging with the wolf?_ Bran walked up closer, to which Meera responded by lifting her knife. His large brown head nodded up and down, holding her gaze in his to reassure her of his identity. She lowered her knife and said nothing else before returning to watching for frogs in muck. Biting down on the oil coated fur she wore, Bran gently tugged her. 

She scowled at him, swatting his muzzle away. “Don’t pull me, I’ll follow.” 

He led her through the tangles of moss and tree roots, running his nose through the dirt to follow his trail. This panged a memory, a memory that was personal one: journeying through the trees with a crannogman. But this was not the party that fit his memories. It had been a long while since he had thought of Jojon. And there a feeling also returned; it was an empty feeling that somehow still was heavy enough to weigh down his paws. Grief, perhaps would apply. 

“Be careful,” Meera snatched onto his thick fur. “The slip grass, all through here.” She pointed to the blue green grass that wove and tangled through itself. “It’s unstable. A risk to walk on.” 

Bran continued onward, locating a collapsed log that wasn’t too rotted away. As she nimbly (nearly more graceful than he) crossed behind him, they entered into the clearing. When he turned to look at her, she had already seen.

“Is that…” Her face had paled in disbelief. “There hasn’t been a weirwood in the Neck for centuries…” 

Bran nodded again, going up to the tree to take in the scent; it was hearty, robust, bitter. Next to him, Meera knelt. She took a heavy breath, and her eyes shone with tears that slid down her cheeks as her smile wrinkled her eyes. He let a huff out through his teeth as he watched her. He remembered her smiles, all of them, but they failed when compared to seeing them in person again. 

“I truly thought the old gods had been gone. Gone from us, gone and beyond care.” She wiped a muddied glove over her tears, leaving a streak of dirt on her cheek. “We’ll take care of it. I swear, every family loyal to House Stark in the Neck will do their duty to keep the old gods. Thank you.” She looked back to him as she ran her fingers over the smooth virgin bark. 

The wolf’s yellow eyes flashed milk white before the beast turned with a frightened yelp, vanishing away in a haste. Meera stood to watch it leave. Before she could let any of her sentimentality slip in, she hardened herself with focus on the matter at hand; a weirwood was back in her lands.  
\-----  
Bran snapped from his warging with a disturbed feeling in his stomach. The words Meera had left him with, ‘thank you”.... They raked against the pocket of his thoughts which he knew to be his personal mind. He had not done this for any gratitude from Meera. He didn’t want her to thank him. 

As the sun over King’s Landing shone through the faint curtains over his bedchamber, he felt a tickle at the back of his neck. Just where she had grabbed the wolf’s scruff, his skin held the faint memory of her hand on him. At that he pushed down his personal thoughts, back to exploring the memories of old.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Meera have some fun hunting; Bran uses his words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this chapter to include more ~content~ that I realized wasn't worth splitting up into 2 chapters. I sort of wanted all the chapters be be similar length but it didn't make sense to split these up.   
> This is why you shouldn't upload late at night when you're mondo tired b/c you make poor decisions.   
> Sorry for confusion

“And you will need a raven for how long? Not that I question you, My Lord, not the slightest,” Maester Samwell insisted as he and Bran continued across the courtyard of the Red Keep. Winter had finally reached down South; even during the height of day, frosty dew remained hidden in the shadows of trees and columns. “Only that, with the new Council, there is a greater need for correspondence across the realm and hardly enough trained birds to fulfill it.” 

“It is a maester’s liberty to question.” Bran held his hands in his lap, feeling the sweat slick between his fingers. He wasn’t used to the South. He had little room left to think of the comfort of his body, and the cold from the North was pleasantly numbing in that regard. “An untrained raven would serve just as well. All I need is a vessel to carry a letter.” Samwell remained silent. “Missing a raven is unlikely to affect the fate of the realm.” He added as they reached the edge of the courtyard. 

Samwell broke into a smile, letting out tension with a relieved laugh. “Alright, well that is good to hear! I know you may not ‘see’ as clearly as before but, um, no pain in checking, right?” 

Bran momentary met his eyes before looked off elsewhere. He had predicted the outcome of the Battle of Winterfell and had not lived that down. It was the bravery of people who fulfilled any prophecy that day, not any sway over the future he held. The past offered insights to what current actions could lead to, but gave not certain future. There is nearly always more than one future and that relies on the actions of people, not him. He can’t control the destiny of others.  
“...I will send a bird to your chambers then, within the day.” 

“Thank you.” Bran gave a slight gesture with his hand, and Podrick steered him back to his room. 

\-------

It had been nearly a fortnight since Meera had seen Bran. At least that was her assumption. She had seen the wolf occasionally as it stalked behind hunting patrols (encouraged by the various families eagerly feeding it now) but she didn’t believe it was Brandon. It behaved too naturally, running to gobble food or lick moss in the dirt while scattering from any crannogmen looking to long. She supposed it was the end of it. With her promise to take care of the weirwood, what further concern would he have in the Neck? 

Meera had just finished up discussion with her father and Geggn Peat at Greywater Watch. The length of the last summer had nursed huge clutches of lizard-lions, the Reeds had promised to send members to help on the hunt today if the caught animals were shared amongst the families. 

“It’s an honor to have a such a prolific member of House Reed joining the hunt, My Lady.” 

“The Reeds have always promised our services to all within the Neck, Lord Peat.” Meera spoke with the head of the Peat household as the two shared a boat with the other hunters.

“Perhaps the one curse of a beautiful summer: large clutches of lizard-lions.” Dory chimed in as he slicked poison on his daggers. 

“I’d say a feast.” She pushed the slightest smile as Dory laughed. Not that it took all that much to amuse him. 

The hunt posed more difficulty than expected; with so many of the reptiles with a territory, not only did tracking become further dangerous, but if one was struck sloppy enough to run away, it’s tearing through the swamp alerted all other animals within ear shot. The large party had split up into smaller groups, with Meera joining Dory. She balanced steadily in her canoe, bowstring loose but with an arrow notched. It was quiet between them, their purpose outweighing any chatter on their minds. In the past she always struggled with the silence of waiting out prey, her father often giving her stern looks when she couldn’t sit still enough. It took her time practicing with Jojon to listen to the full chorus of the swamp, the parts you could only hear when you cancel out the noise of your own breath and heartbeat. 

Her muscles tensed suddenly as the cattails shivered. Drawing her bow back, she took aim at the foliage less than a boat’s length from her. Beside her, in his own canoe, Dory readied himself with a net. Meera waited for a clear shot. 

The cattails parted to reveal the wolf’s brown head, it letting out a low mumbly bark. She didn’t lower her bow, eyes locking with the wolf. It dipped it’s head down, then up again, not breaking eye contact. Meera untensed the string, bringing it down to her side. “Bran?” She mouthed. It stiffly nodded it’s head, then turned to look at her companion. 

“By the old gods themselves I barely believe it!” Dory caught his voice raising too late before quieting down. He looked to Meera with excitement in his eyes, which shifted its fuel from happiness to concern when the wolf took a step towards Meera. 

“He won’t hurt me.” 

“Has the wolf come to you before?” He asked back, easily accepting an excuse to not harm it. 

“At times he finds convinent. He was the one to show me the weirwood.” She looked back to Bran, who blinked slowly. “Is he here to show me anything else?” Meera inquired. If he had anymore secrets to share, she’d be willing to go. But her emotions towards his return were tainted with bitterness; after all they had been through, she was just his ally in business and nothing more. His continued absence had been proof of that. 

The wolf shook it’s head. 

“Does it- he, wish to come with us on the hunt? Perhaps he can lead us with more truth.” Dory face was still colored with awe, his eyes wide like a little boys despite his years. Meera raised her eyebrow, not disguising her disbelief from Dory. 

Bran stepped to the very edge of the bank, raising his paw as if he would enter the water. Meera drifted her canoe through the dense algae on the water over to the wolf. “You splashing amok in the water won’t help us stay quiet.” As the canoe was within his reach, Bran slowly placed one foot in after the other, creating a sucking noise as his paws left the muck. He was unsteady in the canoe, having splayed his legs outward in an attempt to balance like a new fawn on foot. 

“Never been in a canoe before?” Meera couldn’t help a playful smirk. He wanted to reply back that no, he had not. Having intimate knowledge of when the first man in Westeros carved a canoe from the poreious trees in the Neck was not the same as to experiencing one. When he tried to shift his weight, causing the edge to bob low to the water, she reached out to his shoulder and adjusted his leg. “Balance your weight on the strongest areas. And lay down or we’ll be turned.” Her fingers held onto the thick pelt of his neck as he followed her guidance, steadying the canoe. It felt just as the wolf furs that Bran wore on their journey behind the Wall. 

As he lay down at the front of Meera’s canoe, he swiveled his ears. Sounds bounced across the water straight to him; frogs whirring, insects buzzing through the air, water birds flapping their wings, the cut of Meera and Dory’s oars through the water. With a jolt, he raised his head. There was a deeper sound coming off the water, a vibration of a presence that told of size beyond that of a frog. He looked back to Meera, then pointed to the direction of the sound with his nose. She made a gesture to Dory, which prompted him to raise his spear. 

Bran gave a short growl. The lizard-lion twitched it’s head, which had previously been perfectly camouflaged amongst the brown-green weeds. With a thump, an arrow landed perfectly between the animal’s eyes and it floated still in the water. At the same moment, Meera and him looked back to each other. He remembered the admiration he held for her when he first watched her hunt years ago. In his memories he held the tales of the greatest hunts in all of Westeros history, yet his mind could identity none that made him feel anything stronger than first watching her. 

“Told you that beast brings the truth.” Dory grinned, paddling over to the slain animal with a net. 

Bran felt excitement ripple through his pelt. Although none touched his palette, he could smell the salty tang of blood as Dory wrapped the animal in the net to be slung up and returned to later. He had learned to hunt with a wolf’s teeth and claws, not a bow or lance as all others had. Memories of Summer played in his mind, of the first time he had tracked and tasted his own prey. But that wolf was gone. And he could feel he didn’t like that. 

For most of his days, he had spent his life within the memories. Sleep rarely offered a relief as fragmented thoughts of horrors suffered from people he didn’t even know would wake him at night. It was easier to not resist the drowning, to just let the thoughts consume his energy. But as the small party moved on, Bran found he could tread the water; with effort, he could stay within the moment. He didn’t hear all the moments of the centuries of time, all he had to do was hear if a lizard-lion twitched it’s tail in the water.

Their hunt was bountiful; between them six beasts were netted. Bran had started to catch the scent of more humans up ahead. 

“Unless you wish to be fretted over by every Peat and Greenwood alive, you might want to run now.” Meera said, sliding to the nearest stable mass of land. Her voice felt wobbly as she spoke after having been quiet for so long. Bran only looked back to her, and shook his head. “Yes, so get out of the canoe if you’d like.” He didn’t move, just keeping his yellow eyes on her. She sighed. “You do know you don’t make it easy to understand.” 

“Maybe he wishes to go somewhere else?” Dory suggested as he stopped his canoe to turn his attention to them. 

“So I’m a carriage runner now, am I?” 

“If a messenger of the old gods has some place to be, it’s a duty of ours to assist him, don’t you think?” He responded curtly, seeming to take minimal offense to Meera’s remark. Then, with more helpfulness in his voice, “I can take back the lizard-lions. You can trust me to give you your share!” 

With a nod to Dory, Meera followed the direction Bran guided with his muzzle. They fell back into the silence of the hunting trip. After a while she couldn’t stand it any longer, and when they were far enough from any listeners she spoke. “Do you wish me to keep you a secret from Dory?” 

The wolf looked back, tilting his head.

“I didn’t call you Brandon Stark, he doesn’t know you are the Three-Eyed Raven. Do you want him too?” 

The wolf didn’t nod or shake his head. 

“He is a Greenwood. A good family, a good man. Strong faith in the old gods. He would be beyond himself if he knew who you were.”  
The wolf still didn’t reply, only looked forward once again. 

“Perhaps you want to avoid the attention, then. Can’t say I wouldn’t do the same.” Meera couldn’t predict how Dory would answer her confession; just as easily she could see him honor Bran’s privacy as he could end up blurting it out to the first crannogman he saw. “I feel ungrateful saying it, but at times I find myself wishing they’d forget about all of it. All the journey and the going beyond the wall and things. It is just a story to them, a story of magic and triumph and stopping evil. As much as they believe, it isn’t real to them. They can’t see what we saw.” 

The wolf let out a weighty sigh, resting his head on his paws. He held her eyes, letting a slow blink. This was the only person she believed to understand what she had been through, despite his brown fur and claws. Or so she hoped. She hoped that at least he might understand faintly, even if Bran Stark might no longer be. 

“You don’t like to make things easy, do you? How are we supposed to have a conversation if you can’t speak?” 

The wolf tipped his muzzle back, letting out a short howl. 

“That doesn’t count.” She chuckled despite her exasperation, almost hearing a younger Bran’s snarky response from the wolf’s maw.   
Bran had signaled his wish to go a shore as they reached a part of the swamp with the thickest trees. He lept ungracefully from the canoe, causing it to wobble in the water as he slipped his paws through the muck on the shore. Meera anchored down the canoe to a tree, pulling it between the thick reeds to hide their presence. They weren’t in hostile lands, but any amount of privacy they could muster would be helpful. It was habit.

Bran stood to the wolf’s full height as he balanced his claws against a tree. She may have spent considerable time with Summer, but Meera was still taken by how huge even a half-breed dire wolf was. He nosed the crook in the tree, then pulled out a piece of paper with his teeth. Returning all four of his paws to the ground, he approached Meera with the paper displayed. 

Meera looked at him with disbelief. “Did you bring a letter all the way here? Or have you learned to write as well using your paws?” She wanted to snatch the letter from him, but Bran’s presence demanded a level of patience she found equally annoying as calming, depending on her mood. 

The wolf swung his head closer, gesturing her to take the letter. 

She opened it and looked down on the ink. It had started to feather on the parchment as the humidity and dew of the Neck soaked into it’s paper. Meera tightened her lip. She hadn’t know of Bran’s penmanship on their journey together, but this reminded her of him entirely: It may have held the correct spelling and formatting of a trained writer, but the scratching and waviness of the letters reflected the pivotal years spent away from any sort of formal studies. Bran’s writing was nearly more impactful to her than the message it carried. But the note sunk in as she reread and reread over in her head: 

**Why did you not wish to see me?**

“I didn’t want to see you because you hurt me.” She looked down to Bran, who sat watching her. 

The wolf cocked it’s head.

“You did.” Meera lowered her eyebrows. “That night I left, it took nearly a fortnight to reach Greywater Watch. Each night I stayed awake, terrified that if I closed my eyes the next I opened them would be to a mass of dead bodies attacking everything I grew up for. And when we finally received word that Winterfell had beaten back the White Walkers, I didn’t hear from you. When we heard word that the Lannister queen had been defeated, I didn’t hear from you. Then when we heard of a new council formed from the ashes of King’s Landing, I didn’t hear from you. The last time I heard from you was that night when you dismissed me. You were the only friend I had left and you dismissed me, like an old mule you didn’t need anymore.” She could feel her breath catching in her lungs as a lump bore into her throat. Her whole body felt a weakness from spouting out all the frustration and anger that had plagued her mind. 

Bran stared back into her eyes; the dark color caught the fraction of sun that slipped through the trees and he could see them shine with forming tears. He had hurt her. He, Bran, had hurt Meera. Within his head that thought pulsed, each time growing larger as the pocket of Bran’s personal mind pushed forward. Past all the knowledge he inherited of Westeros, the fact he had hurt Meera felt of greater importance than any of it. 

“So why do I hear from you now?” She didn’t break eye contact, her expression still hardened, but cracking. 

Bran appreciated the muteness of his form at that moment. No words came to him. All he could think to do was press his cheek to her. A long, low whimper left his chest as he rested himself against her stomach. He didn’t understand what he was trying to say, but this was as closest he could come to it. It was as strong as thirst or hunger but felt greater in purpose. 

Meera’s hand ran over his head. Following a path over his ear and down his neck, she knelt down as she wrapped her arms around him. She buried her face in his wild fur on his scruff. Both were thrust into memories of times before; Meera clutching on tight to the thick furs that covered Bran’s frail body in the cold; Bran nestling his face within Meera’s curled hair with the smell of her body surrounding him.

“They will worry if I’m away too long.” She pulled away from Bran, lingering with their faces on level. There was relief in her expression; her eyes shone with less bitterness and the subtle curve of her lips had more sincerity. He nodded, watching as Meera left him on the shore to return to her canoe. When he couldn’t catch her smell on the fog, he blinked away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran writes what he needs to tell Meera; Meera's got a scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any returning readers, I have added additional story to chapter 4 because it didn't make sense to split the scene up the way I did. So if you haven't read that yet, I'd recommend it lol

To describe the procedure of switching the letter from raven to wolf as easy would be disingenuous. Bran’s vague familiarity of the swamp didn’t translate to familiarity in the air, so he could only guess on the rough location of the tree he would wedge the letter in. However, the discovery of the weirwood had made Greywater Watch far easier to locate; the floating structure hadn’t gone far from the bog nearby the tree. Confident that the raven had hidden the letter in a tree near the Reed’s home, Bran switched his focus from the bird to the wolf. He returned to the animal as it finished up swallowing down guts from a waterfowl. 

Licking downy feathers from his lips, he pricked his ears to the noises bouncing off of Greywater Watch. The wolf seemed to prefer to linger close to humans, where the paths were a tad more safe and the food a tad more accessible. He trotted to the edge of the water to better see the castle. The sun was still too low to break through the dense fog, meaning he was in time to see the first hunting patrols head off. As men and women from the surrounding crannogs collected amongst boats and piers to go off and check the traps, both his eyes and ears tuned in to any show of Meera. Bran lifted his head, catching the unique scent he was searching for, and let out a howl. When he looked back, however, his expectation sunk when he pinpointed the aroma came only from the Greenwood man he had met weeks prior. Bran waited on the crisp moss, waited until the frost melted to dew and the sun sparkled off the water. It was midday, and she still had not shown. 

The sun was high in the sky now; he was staying past what he would normally permit himself, but the letter he brought today was of utmost importance it reached her. Time was a precious thing to others in a way it wasn’t to him. In a life of finite years, each day held a great importance. His time guiding the raven to the Neck had kept him away from his wolf for weeks, kept him away from Meera.   
Despite knowing the futility of worrying, he did. He held concerns for many things, but emotional attachment to any of them less so. Knowing all he did, seeing all of Westeros as he did, investing care for all of them would a pointless price he couldn’t afford anyway. But the part of his thoughts that were Bran’s fought for these moments of feeling towards Meera; it craved it and demanded it. He would question himself why, but found himself unable, or willing, to answer. 

Then, from the main entrance of the Watch, exited a collection of men and women that were wrapping up discussion. With them, Meera accompanied her father to see the guests off. She remained outside the keep even as her father turned back within, her eyes searching the swamp. Her gaze traveled his way as Bran tossed his head back in a low, even howl. In a spirr of movement, Meera climbed within a canoe, paddling out in his direction. As she grew closer, Bran howled once again, wanting to draw him closer and closer. 

“You can howl your voice raw, I can’t leave everything and come running every time you see fit to call upon me.” Despite Meera’s scolding words, her tone and wide smile on her face showed her real feelings. The sun was beautiful off her hair, shining off the dark curls and the droplets of water that stuck to it through the clouds of fog. 

When she was within reach with her canoe pulled to the shore, Bran leaned out and gently tugged the fur on her coat. 

“So I was that missed this dawn? I have duties to people other than you.” When Meera stepped out to the (somewhat) steady ground, she stroked her hand over his pelt. Her touch spoke to something so basic within him that it felt as pure as water on the tongue or warmth in the belly. He led her deeper within the wooded patch, snuffing the ground to locate where he had hidden the letter. “I’m of age to be taking on the greater responsibilities but… still feels odd when a day isn’t spent expecting death.” 

Bran let out a huff in agreement. From the many things he remembered from that time, it was the fear of death. Death was such a primal fear that even he, whatever he was now, could not shake the fear from his memory. 

He stopped his pace by Meera’s side when they had reached the tree his letter was stored. He scratched at the bark, widening the entrance of an abandoned bird hole as he delicately took hold of the paper in his teeth. Giving it to her, he watched as her face shifted when she read the contents: 

**I have discovered the purpose I have here, and it was of atonement. Good deeds are seldom rewarded, so it is right that when able, to they should be. It is a reward from the old gods that they gave your people the weirwood tree. And it is my apology that I wish to give. I can’t stop the pain caused by living, but I hope to lessen the pain I’ve caused to you. I didn’t know how I had hurt you, and whatever is still in me, I don’t want to hurt you. I owe you much more than that.**

Bran tracked her eyes hitting each word, each word that echoed how he felt but couldn’t express what exactly he needed to say. Meera brought the letter away from her face, returning Bran’s intense gaze. She knelt down, evening her head on his level; the same Bran within his head who demanded moments of affection towards Meera felt compelled to look away. Meera reached out her hand to his face, her fingers running through his fur and breath tickling his nose. He leaned his cheek against her touch, a whimper crawling through his throat which he felt an embarrassment for. 

“There is something I mean to tell you,” Meera said, and he could smell the mixture of nerves off her skin. 

But that was all Bran heard as a loud knocking on the door startled him from warging. He blinked his eyes at the brighter sun flowing through his room that was previously dulled by the mist and trees of the swamp. 

“My Lord?” Podrick asked, once more tapping on the thick wooden door. “Is everything alright, My Lord?” 

“Yes,” Bran answered. “Come in.” 

“I’m sorry to intrude, there was just some concern over your whereabouts, My Lord.” Podrick spoke as he entered the room with shrunken confidence. “It was past midday and there was no sight of you, My Lord.” 

“I became… distracted.” He lifted his hand to his cheek, touching where the sensation of Meera’s hand once was with a blank stare. 

 

Meera docked her canoe to the piers that floated attached to Greywater Watch. She was lucky that the wolf seemed only scared of her, otherwise twice she could have been one of the beast’s meals. It was unreasonable to assume he had time for her all day, but she was growing frustrated at their lack of coordination with their current conversational abilities. As she walked along the crannog docks, with the returned hunting patrol. Most of their nets dragged flaccid in the water. 

“The traps yield less, Lady Reed.” Dory Greenwood climbed up the wooden steps to meet on her level. “Despite the efforts, the lizard-lions still drive the fish further from the swamp.”

“I’ve heard traps near Lord Marsh’s land are faring better.” Meera shoved down her frustration with Bran; the needs of her people weighed more than his. 

“Their position bordering the Riverlands means the fish swim to them.” When Dory spoke, it was with the tone of a man who had given the same report many times over and knew she already knew. “Are you certain your proposal will be taken seriously in King’s Landing? I know you have faith in your past with the Three-Eyed Raven, but, and please forgive me Lady Reed, it isn’t certain he will support our favor. Not that I question any ruling by him, not at all! Only that he has yet to contact the crannogmen at all. Perhaps it isn’t time.” 

“You believe that as much as I or my father does.” Meera continued down the walkway with him. He nodded his mop of blonde hair, conceding to her insistence. 

“And of my proposal?” Dory asked with a slight tinge of bashfulness. 

“Yet to answer!” Meera gave a weak smile, keeping her tone light despite her escape within Greywater Watch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meera tells Bran good news and bad news, or is it just all bad news?

It was the eve of her departure, and her father had insisted on a feast of rich stewed frogs and crisped game bird meat. It was the reputation of the crannogmen to be those of modest celebration, which her father certainly filled, but Meera wouldn’t desire anything else. Still, a level of expectation was forced upon her, even by those who she felt most comfortable with. “What was the Three-Eyed Raven like as a boy?” “Beyond the Wall, were the weirwoods taller than the eye can see?” “Have you heard the last song Gradin Moerth has written of your triumph?” “I only pray my sons and daughters will grow to be as blessed as you.” The whole night, she kept checking the sounds of the swamp, waiting to hear a howl on the water.

As the festivities grew more drunken, Meera found an opportunity to excuse herself from conversation with her cousins. With a nod to the guards and giving the reason of fresh air on such a warm night, she exited to the docks. For the past few days a wind from the South had stirred the humidity in the Neck, rendering it near as warm as a summer day. She pulled the clip from her hair, letting the mist coil around her scalp. She had no malice for the cold, but the change in weather made her feel far more at home. 

The peaceful song of the owls was disturbed as, off to the side of her, a thrashing in the water followed by a yelp ruined the still night. Steadily, Meera stalked to a canoe. Arming herself with the spear left inside, she pushed off from the docks towards the noise as it continued to splash. She was nearing the weirwood when she discovered the source of the noise; in the bog was the wolf, snapping and growling at the slip grass that wrapped around it’s limbs and slowly pulling it further under the water as it tried to free itself. 

Meera readied her spear, cursing at the animal to stay still as she lunged her weapon forward to cut away chunks of the plant. Seeing her unsteady control of the boat wouldn’t help, she leapt to the shore, sinking deep through the muck but having a firmer hold than before. Scooting down to the water edge she was half wading through the bog as she reached the wolf and hacked at the plant. Once it was free, she grabbed at its scruff and tugged it up to the shore. She could never carry it’s massive body, but the animal soon understood and used it’s claws to help clamber up to safety. She didn’t drop her spear as the animal rose to it’s feet; crouching in the mud, she dreaded, but was prepared, to run the beast through should it lunge. 

Instead the wolf shook it’s pelt, spraying her further with water. Then it sat, looking at her. Meera held the wolf with a strong glare, searching within it’s yellow eyes. The beast nodded slowly as it’s tongue panted out of it’s mouth.

“And here he is, the Three-Eyed Raven; nearly drowned in the swamp!” She tried to catch her breath between how hard she was laughing. “You’re impossible and hopeless, Brandon Stark. Hopelessly impossible!” The wolf thumped down on the drier ground, closer to the weirwood tree, letting out a deep breath. Meera scooted up next to the creature, her eyes noticing the raw skin around the animals legs from trudging through the bog water; the fly bites surrounding it’s eyes and ear skin; the fur matted with leaves and mud around it’s tail. “You work that poor creature rotten. A wolf is not meant to live here…” 

Bran turned his eye towards her, but didn’t move, only laying back his ears. 

“I didn’t mean I don’t wish to see you. But things of this earth, they have limits that you don’t.” It was then she noticed the slickness of her clothes sticking to her; having worn her more decorative clothing to the feast, they were ill equipped to handle wading through water and getting soaked in the mud. Absent-mindedly following her instincts, Meera stripped the first layer of fabric off. In the swamps you learned quickly that wet clothing on your skin was as dangerous as any spear or animal. She was in the midst yanking her boots off when she remembered her audience. The wolf stared at her in her undershirt, and with surprise she realized she didn’t feel any bashfulness. Yes, the two of them had grown somewhat acquainted to each other’s bodies on their travels as was inevitable. She never felt embarrassed for her body, and although she didn’t appreciate lewd men ogling, she couldn’t deny a level of pleasure from someone she held close staring. 

The wolf returned it’s head to it’s paws, which she found humorous to think of an animal trying to respect someone’s modesty. Meera laid down next to him, letting her wet clothes sit on the grass beside her. The hot breeze tickled against her toes. She took a deep breath, ready to address what she had started before. 

“I never got to finish what I meant to tell you last time.” 

The wolf twisted it’s ear towards her. 

“My father and I have been discussing expanding our boundaries. With the Riverlands under new leadership, we aim to reason with the new Lord Paramount of the Trident to gain back our lands the Frey’s had been leaching from us over the centuries.” Meera kept her eyes to the sky, suddenly feeling unsure of her next words. “I am to start off to King’s Landing in the morning to meet with the Democratic Council. But I suppose you already knew of this from your visions.” 

He shook his head slightly, opening and closing his maw to adjust his tongue behind his teeth. “I wish you would say something to me.” Meera shut her eyes with a sigh. 

Moments trickled by; the ripe smells from the swamp flowed through the warm air and the largest sound was that of both their lungs taking them in. Suddenly, a cold wet object pushed against her, weaseling itself under her arm. The weight of the wolf’s head rested on her chest. She thought of the nights they spent together huddling for warmth beyond the Wall, she would be kept up knowing that if their fire went out, both would die from the cold. Just as then, she was compelled to run her hand over his head; his thick brown hair replaced by thick brown fur that left streaks of muddy water on her fingers. And the danger of dying replaced by the warmth of a delicate winter night. She bit her lip, knowing he could only be thinking the same thing too. 

Bran could have laid like that for the whole night, with Meera’s chest lifting and lowering him and her heart beating within his ear. Only a thin layer of fabric separated his skin from hers, but his nose could pick up each drop of sweat from her skin and the oil from the feast she had left. Her fingers curled through his pelt and he stretched his neck so she could reach the tender part of his throat. They stayed that way for a long while, so long he could feel his drowsiness start to over take him. 

“I wish I could stay through the night,” Meera’s voice whispered into his ear. He could feel her lift upward, and he stood to not block her movement. Shaking his pelt, he watched as she gathered her stray clothes, slipping them on and covering up the thin underclothing. “But I would be noticed missing by tomorrow, if I’m not already now.” 

As she was just about to unanchor her canoe, the usual playful smile on her lips soured as she lingered. “Lord Dory Greenwood has asked for my marriage. I haven’t accepted but… I hope to see you in King’s Landing.” She hurried out the last sentence, pushing away from the shore in direction back to Greywater Watch. 

 

Bran entered back into his body with a start, breathing slightly caught as he opened his eyes to his regular chambers. He laid in bed, his mind twisting around so much it made him nauseated. An ache grabbed at his chest, piling on emotions that were too strong and painful to keep. Bran shut his eyes, in a blink pushing out any thoughts of his own and bringing himself back to the past, to the events that had happened and couldn’t be influenced anymore.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Bran have a conversation. Meera arrives at King's Landing.

“You speak little during the Council meetings, brother.” Sansa Stark had accompanied Brandon back to his chamber as the forum had concluded. She had just arrived yesterday to represent the North in the Democratic Council meetings (which occurred every two fortnights). The Wardeness of the North didn’t always show herself, frequently sending a vessel, so it seemed appropriate to mark the occasion. It was routine for them to share a meal in private when Sansa arrived at King’s Landing, but she wouldn’t describe their shared time as overly pleasant. There were times when neither would say anything during the hour they spent together. 

“There is no final answer to any of their questions.” Bran spoke, watching sunlight seep through the light curtains over his window. Faintly, the shuffling of the raven could be heard as it sat in it’s cage on Bran’s desk.

“You don’t have to say final answers.”

“But that is what they expect.” 

“That is what has always been expected of those who lead others.”

“And I never wanted to lead others.” Bran looked over to her, his face holding no expression. “I’m not like you, Sansa.”

She took a sip of wine. He knew she was uncomfortable around him; he couldn’t blame her for that, he was often uncomfortable around himself. 

“I have asked you here for more than just a formality. The Reeds wish to expand further south into the Riverlands. As the head House of the North, your support would be an aid in backing up their claim.”

Sansa’s attention was stirred at his unusual change in conversation. “Their qualms with the Freys should have ended with a new Lord Paramount of the Trident.” The family name left her lips like a poison, her jaw clenching as if it burned to say. She was fortunate enough to have not seen it, Bran was not. It was a memory that haunted him frequently. 

“They want the kingdoms to recognise their hold to the lands that have been taken from them over the centuries.” Bran said plainly.

“And is that what you advocate? That we assist in their right over the lands?” Sansa met his stare.

“The dirt recognizes no one's right to the land.” He replied. “It is for the health of her people that I advocate for them.” He realized the crucial word he had slipped when Sansa’s expression shifted. 

“You have been in contact with Lady Meera Reed?” Sansa’s voice raised in interest, biting down slightly immature excitement. Outside of the North, Meera Reed’s bravery was often excluded from the numerous tales of the Three-Eyed Raven’s, but as the head House of the North, she was well aware of her role. 

“Yes.” Bran answered stiffly. 

“Does she fare well?” 

“Yes. She will be joining Council at King’s Landing to bring her request to both you and Lord Tully.” Bran was about to leave it there, when he felt a prick within his mind. “She is waiting to accept a marriage proposal from Lord Dory Greenwood.” 

“And what’s your opinion on this?” Sansa pried further.

“Compared to most marriages in Westeros, she couldn’t fair much better.” 

“I asked for Bran’s opinion.” 

He slowly turned to look at her. “I have no other opinion that matters.” 

“Yes you do.” 

He could feel her eyes search his. As it had weeks prior, the ache returned to him. It was hot and dull and burning within his chest in a way that made him want to retreat from it. He looked down at his hands in his lap, which had tightened their hold on each other. 

Sansa took another sip of wine. “It’s cruel of me to say, but it comforts me you feel that way.” 

“Why is that?” 

“For all that I no longer recognize about you, I know that Brandon Stark would care for the affections of a woman who saved his life.” 

“I do.” Bran was caught off guard with the words from his lips even as he spoke in his now normal monotone. He cared for her beyond what he thought was wise. When thoughts of her filled his mind, he couldn’t resist his emotions. “But I can never be the same Brandon Stark you knew anymore than you can be the same Sansa Stark I did.”

“Westeros is done with the same. Change is leading now, and I miss little of the old.” Sansa carried her words with an authority that showed a long time ruminating on the topic. “Still, marriage is a commodity. But that doesn’t mean you’re destined to lose.” 

Bran understood her reference being to her own husband, Theon Greyjoy. Although he held little personal affection towards the man, as with everything, his feelings didn’t matter much. Theon’s role was set, had happened, and had been repaid for. 

“Love is a rarely a consideration in marriage, I’m not so stupid that I don’t understand that now. But when it happens,” He could feel Sansa’s eyes on him as he looked away. “it’s not a thing worth wasting. So you can’t tell me Lady Meera Reed comes to King’s Landing for the Riverlands alone.” 

Bran sat with her words; they once again overwhelmed him, reminding him of how Meera was on her way, that she would see him. Or would she avoid him? Would that feel better or worse? He grew tempted to pull away from his personal thoughts, to retreat to history and watch some frivolous event that carried no weight to him. However, another thought popping into his mind.

“I liked to watch you sew back in Winterfell, when we were children.” He blurted out. “You never teased me for liking to watch you sew.” 

Sansa blinked, seemingly caught off guard by his random statement, before smiling. “You paid better attention than Arya. You never pestered me for liking to sew.” She chuckled slightly, but genuinely. 

They sat with their meals, the sunset trickling down over the castle walls as both concluded their diner. 

“I shouldn’t keep you any longer, brother.” Sansa stood, her Northern embroidered cloak cascading around her. Bran had always seen her spark of nobility; she had grown into it fittingly. He respected that about her. She knew where she belonged in Westeros. 

“I thank you for your time, Sansa.” Bran mentioned as she neared the door. “I enjoy speaking with you, despite everything.”

“I will support House Reed’s claim to a fraction of the Riverlands if it is presented to the Council.” Sansa paused to look over her younger brother. He had grown so far away from her, so different from her, she wasn’t even sure how much she even recognized his face. But they were both born and weaned at Winterfell, and had survived to return. “Till we speak again.” 

\---------

Meera was amazed when she entered King’s Landing. It all went by fast she couldn’t take it all in. She was bowing her head to Daenarys Targaryan in the midst of comprehending how stone could be built so high, while also dealing with how cramped the whole city felt without the ability to get up and float away. She looked forward to the daylight when more of the impressive maze would be visible. She and four of her guards were currently being escorted through the Red Keep by one of the many workers that darted about. Despite the night, the courtyard was readily populated still and she nearly asked to stay to look around if she wasn’t so exhausted from her journey. 

“Lady Meera Reed,” In her absorbed attention she hadn’t noticed the young vole-haired man approach him. He ducked his head down in a bow that seemed hardly appropriate for her title and made her feel rather embarrassed. “Lord Brandon Stark wonders if you could spare just a few words with him before you end your day.” 

“Sure…” She tried too late to fit back into her more lordly, authoritative voice. She followed him through the courtyard, past the ladies in their bouncing dresses and the still blooming flowers that survived the thin frost of the nights. 

It was like a key into a lock when Meera’s eyes fell upon Bran. As if sensing her presence, he turned his gaze to her. He was as she remembered; dark hair, dark eyes, skin pale like milk, lips slightly down turned. His southern attire did less to hide his thin frame than the thick furs of the North. 

“Lord Brandon,” Meera spoke with a sturdy confidence. Like a wound picked open, she felt her previous anger towards him slink in her mind. The last time she had seen this face was when she felt like the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms. But as a wound, she pulled her mind away from picking at it. 

“Lady Meera.” He nodded slightly. His voice surprised her; in the few years away he had deepened, but not so much that her name sounded any different from his lips. “You traveled well?” 

“Yes.” When she held his eyes, it felt the same as the wolf’s eyes. She swore she could almost see a shine of yellow deep within them. “Although King’s Landing is far grander than I imagined.” 

“It isn’t the same as the North. Not as fitting for a crannogmen, I suppose.” He replied. 

“You look like less of a wolf down here as well.” Meera nodded her head towards his wardrobe. 

“Less furs are needed in the South.” Bran tilted his head, eyes narrowing from the slightest smirk on his face.

“You asked for me?” 

“I was concerned on how you fared on your journey.” 

“It’s good to see you. As yourself. Here.” She held back her tongue from referencing his showy performance as a wolf any further. He never had told her if he had been meeting her in secret, but she had a childish hope that he was; that if so much of him must be broadcasted in songs and poems, at least these new moments spent together was something belonging to them alone. 

“It is good.” Bran replied, and she could read the subtle shift in his brows; a slight twitch upward in a way that made his words seem more a testing question over a confident statement. She caught a coy avoidance in his eyes, him not meeting her gaze as strongly. “I’ve missed seeing you.” 

Meera became distinctly aware of the audience around her. The man who led her to Bran stood at his side, quickly darting his eyes between the two while poorly masking his looks.. She clenched her hands behind her back, hoping her blush wasn’t as visible as it felt. For weeks she had wanted the immediacy of feedback that the wolf couldn’t, but for some reason she hadn’t considered that it might be a challenge to ever get time alone to talk. “Perhaps after the Council tomorrow we will have time to amend that.” 

“I will be there. You’re request to the Council has the support of both myself and my sister.” Bran nodded assuredly.   
She couldn’t stop an excited smile. Her proposal had been taken seriously. “I will have to tell my appreciation to Lady Stark as soon as I can. And I give it to you now, Lord Brandon.” 

“Thank your courage, not mine.” Bran gave her a smile back, sweet enough to almost forget he was nearly a god. 

“Well, I wish you a good night then, Lord Brandon.” While she wasn’t ready for their conversation to be over, anything else she wished to discuss would not be for the ears of others.

He turned his attention to a flower, lightly running his finger over it’s bud that had started to fold in on itself to survive the night frost. He seemed to understand that more words were to be had by his tone and side-eyed glance. “And to you.” 

Followed by her guards, she separated herself from the encounter. It seemed stupid to her that she traveled all this way, have spoken face to face with Bran, and just now feel impatient. 

That night she slept poorly; it was far too hot in all the wrong ways. The dry air burned her lungs and heavy sheets didn’t allow any of her skin to breath underneath it. Without the light bob and current from the bog, she didn’t even know if her exhaustion could get her to sleep. Meera couldn’t wait for the night to be through and her anticipation to end.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meera and Bran have time to themselves after the Council forum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should this chapter be alone? No, not really. But the next chapter is getting so long that I had to divide it up somehow. But the next should be up very soon, sooner than this one was lol.

The Democratic Council went in favor of Meera’s request. Though Lord Tully’s stubbornness did take some time convincing, in the end Sansa settled his concerns without difficulty. Bran was impressed by how Meera carried herself. Despite her formal cloak and neatly ordained shirt, even as she spoke you could see through to a woman who worked best with the smell of blood and a bow in her hands. She brought a wildness to the chamber that rivaled the dignity of the finely dressed Lords and Ladies. And that Bran found deeply engaging. 

“Lady Stark,” Meera approached the Stark siblings outside the Council chambers doors as the rest of the Lords and Ladies exited. “House Reed gives it’s gratitude towards House Stark for your support in our proposal.” 

“House Reed is a loyal and valuable bannerman of the North,” Sansa spoke, her cool eyes meeting Meera’s. “I’d say it is a reward for all you’ve done to help my brother, but it is your rightful land. Some other sort of consideration should be given.” 

Meera dipped her head when spoken too, looking to her feet when Sansa said her gratitude. “No, no My Lady. I need no payment for doing what is right by the realm.”

“Your modesty is refreshing at King’s Landing.” Sansa’s look and smile back to Bran told far more than she was saying. “I imagine you’d like to speak to Bran. No doubt you both have much to catch up on. I’ll see you at the afternoon council, brother.”

Bran flashed a scowl at his sister. She may have matured to a leader, but still saved her know-it-all smarminess for the right moments. “You can leave to, Podrick.” 

“I’ve been lugging Lord Brandon on worse than this. A chair like this will spoil me.” Meera grinned, evidently answering some sort of concerned look Podrick had given from behind him. “Maybe I’ll extract my payment owed with a tour of the Red Keep.” She moved behind him, to the guiding position at the back of the chair. 

“What do you want to see here?” Bran asked. In his lap he squeezed the knuckles on his fingers. He nearly thought he was sick with the bubbling sensation in his stomach before realizing it was his nerves. 

“Wherever we end up.” 

Bran racked through his mind for places within the Red Keep that might impress her, as she had impressed him. He had been here so long, but hadn’t kept much inventory of any spectacles within the Keep. It hadn’t occurred to him. Then a thought came to him, a thought from purely the pocket in his mind for Bran. “Take the right exit, keeping to the far side columns.”

As they went, his nerves subsided slightly. This was familiar. It was no different than being aided by Podrick, or his sister, or any Keep staff, but it felt different. He was no wolf, but his mind pulled the memory of Meera’s smell, almost as if he could still sense it as clearly. The rhythm of her lungs unique as well, with the subtle breathes he knew his wolf would hear. 

“I thought Winterfell was huge.” Meera spoke. He turned his head to watch her stare up at the massive pillars that held up even larger blocks of stone. “You ever worry it might all fall on you?” 

“Perhaps a little.” He replied. Of course the thought entered his head occasionally. 

As they passed the courtyard, he turned his head back to look at her. The natural upturn of her lips smiled further as she saw the opened blossoms that were closed last night. 

“They are beautiful.” Bran said with sincerity as he looked at the purple and white petals amongst the bushes. “Some have grown here longer than I’ve lived.”

“They are.” Meera replied. “To think here in King’s Landing they have rooms dedicated to flowers.” 

“You have no gardens at Greywater Watch?” Bran asked, if not out of interest to at least hear her voice carry on more. 

“We prefer vines to stay on the outside of our crannogs.” She chuckled. 

“The yellow flowers.” 

“What?”

“The yellow flowers that grow in the drier parts of the Neck.” Bran clarified his thoughts. “They would be nice to see.” 

Meera carried on in sentimental voice. “Someday I should tour you around Greywater Watch. I’ll take you through the halls as a wolf if I have to.” She playfully ducked closer to his ear. Her breath on his skin tickled his whole neck, standing his hair on end. 

“I’m not much use visiting myself.” Bran said back, not meaning to sound as sharp as he did. 

Meera didn’t speak for a while after. He hoped it wasn’t what he had said. 

“Why aren’t you back at Winterfell?” She finally asked. 

“My advice is still believed useful here.” He gave the most obvious answer, holding back a horde of other reasons he hadn’t.

He could sense Meera was about to say something when she stopped with a gasp. “Is that the ocean?” 

“Blackwater Bay.” Bran nodded. They had reached one of the few viewing outcroppings that lined the ocean wall of the Red Keep. In the full daylight, the bay was glittering brighter than the stained glass around the castle. It matched the sky’s hue so perfectly it looked as if the sun was being balanced on a giant wave. The chatter from the gulls and crash of the waves drowned out the crewmen and ships on the lower docks. 

Meera moved beside him, resting her hands on the stone wall. The salted and seaweed scented air hit against her face, blowing back her black hair away from her skin. The last time he had seen her hair blow was in the frosted winds behind the Wall that whipped skin red and bled out tears. Seeing her eyes squint to the breeze and her lips draw back in a grin could have completely replaced that memory. For a moment, he could act as if he had forgotten. 

“For months living here, I couldn’t look at it.” Bran watched the white birds lazily swoop up and down. Any of the other spectating Lords and Ladies had left, keeping far distance from him. 

“Why?” Meera asked in disbelief, holding her hand up to her eyes to block out the sun. “It’s beautiful!” 

Bran swallowed down a burn in his throat. “It reminded me of the stories you’d tell of the Neck; of the fishing and the boats kept on the water.” He could feel her eyes on him now. “And there was a part of myself which knew I had wronged you, but it was a part I could barely understand anymore. So I didn’t try.” 

“Bran,” Meera crouched down, speaking softly. “I don’t blame you for having been chosen by the old gods. I don’t know how that must feel. Terrible, I must imagine.” 

Slowly, he lifted his eyes up to her face. She was only inches away from him, meeting his eyes as normal, as if he was human. She may not have known how it had felt, but she was the closest to guess the correct answer. His throat burned too much to keep it down, and when he parted his lips to breathe, next he knew he was crying. Meera touched his clasped hands, an affirming weight added to his lap. “I’m sorry, Meera.” He said quietly, not wanting to risk his voice cracking. “I’m sorry for all I need to be sorry for.” 

“I forgive you, Bran.” Meera replied back, using her thumb to wipe away a tear, her hand lingering against his cheek. They stayed that way for however many moments, Bran wasn’t sure, but it was until his eyes dried and his skin started to feel warmer than her hand. Her head tipped forward a fraction before she quickly snapped it back, along with her hand. On his lap, her other hand twitched as if wanting to pull away, but then settled on just having a lighter hold. 

They were quiet then. Despite not speaking, Bran’s mind was beyond loud. Thoughts from his personal mind swirled all over and confused him. Bran tried to reference many of the moments he had seen in Westeros; did he understand what had happened? Did she truly mean to kiss him? Or was that the banal fantasies of a naive little boy who used to spend nights dreaming that she might?   
“I wonder what it’s like to be on that water.” Meera broke the silence. “It’s open. Vulnerable. No trees to hide behind.”   
“I’d never want to be. I’m not in much of a mood to drown.”

“You’re frightened of the ocean but not of flying through the air? Fortunate you are the Three-Eyed Raven and not the Three-Eyed Fish.” Meera snickered, lifting her eyebrows. “There must be somewhere less frightening to show me in the Red Keep.”  
He smirked at her, narrowing his eyes. No matter what jabs she said, nothing from her mouth ever sounded malicious. “Wherever we end up.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran and Meera have a nice dinner, which turns into a date, which turns into more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow a long chapter, and it took long to finish too.   
> Please know that this chapter does have sex happening, so please proceed with what you know you are comfortable with.

Before they realised it, much of the day had passed by. The sun, which when their tour started had barely been at full peak, was now painting the sky orange and nearly hidden below the castle walls. It had been the most enjoyable day Bran had since his arrival at King’s Landing; in fact, it felt like it was the first time he truly saw King’s Landing. He didn’t realize the beauty of the delicately carved bricks, carefully measured arches and panes of glass, or the smell of salt air that had soaked into the very beams of the structure. There were moments as they went along that he would close his eyes, imagining what he might of experienced as the wolf. What further scents would stick in his mind, what other sounds would he have detected? 

But the day was drawing to an end. As the sun sank, so did his mood, knowing that his time with Meera would be stalled until the next day. Again, he felt a sensation he hadn’t in a while; urgency. Or at least, personal urgency. Everything had an urgency to it, each little thing happened under the daunting constraints that soon, death comes for all. But death would save Bran for many, many years past due, so not much carried the same weight as to others. But this did. There was an importance to his time with Meera that he didn’t dare put on hold for the night. 

“Bran,” Meera said, as they traveled through the now less populated corridors. “I’ve taken much of your time, but could I convince you to share supper with me tonight?” 

Bran twisted his head back to look at her, nearly about to believe she had read his mind. He nodded his answer. “We can take it in my room. Probably more pleasant than guest quarters.” 

“I imagine the Great Brandon Stark’s rooms are far more than a humble crannogman like I could dream of,” Meera huffed a laugh. In truth, Bran didn’t want to make her deal with the troubles of moving from one floor to the next with the difficulty the stairs imposed. 

He nearly changed his mind, however, when they entered his chambers. For such a fine room, it was sparse in any decoration. The curtains were drawn, not having been pulled open for weeks. His writing desk was now home to a raven, which squawked as the door opened. Barren were the walls of anything besides a Stark flag, which had been a gift to him from Daenerys. The table by his window, which he took his meals, had fresh cut flowers that one of the servants must had brought in. Perhaps the least stale element to the room. 

“This is how you’ve been sending the letters?” Meera approached the raven on the desk after they both spoke with the Keep staff for food. She flittered her fingers between the cage rungs, the bird hopping about. “Clever.”

Bran gestured to the clay dish beside the cage, prompted Meera to look inside to see chunks of salted meat. The bird tapped its beak on the cage, eagerly grabbing the treat from her fingers. It nibbled on her fingers, asking for more. 

“You’re room is beautiful,” she wandered around, spinning to take in each wall of red brick. “But nothing in it.” She smirked.

“I wouldn’t know what to keep. What does a Lord keep in a room?” 

“I wouldn’t know, I am no Lord.” 

Soon, their meals were brought in with food she hardly recognized. The spices were sweeter, with less fat than on lizard-lions and less oily. Still, far better than any of the gamey rabbits and choking twigs from beyond the Wall. She let out a long sigh, leaning back in her chair. In her hand she swirled the glass of deep red wine. For once, something familiar. There was a silence between them, accented by the fading chirps of birds. Both were waiting for the other to speak, but it wasn’t waiting in discomfort. The longer no one spoke, the longer they could ignore what they both knew needed to be talked about. 

“I think you should accept Lord Dory Greenwood’s proposal.” Bran blurted. 

Meera looked over to him, brows knitted upward. 

“He is a good man. He will be a good husband to you.” 

“Have you seen that in your visions?” Meera questioned quietly, smiling to break her nerves.

“No, but I trust how you have described him, and what I’ve seen.” Bran twisted at his fingers in his lap. “You deserve a good husband.” 

“I didn’t come here for your blessing.” Meera’s answered plainly, taking back a sip of wine. “I don’t love him.”

“Love isn’t commonly a part of marriage.” Bran said, swallowing hard. 

“And one doesn’t commonly fall from a window and live. One doesn’t commonly travel beyond the Wall and return. One doesn’t commonly kill a white walker. One doesn’t commonly inherit all the memories of Westeros in one year.” Meera spoke fervently, scooting her chair closer to him, her eyes holding on to his. “One doesn’t commonly show up at someone’s door as a damned wolf.” 

Bran felt a shutter down his neck with her eyes upon him. “I suppose there is nothing common about either of us now…” he trailed off, his lips lingering open. 

With her palm, she touched Bran’s face. He breath hitched, and he nudged against her hand. She worked her fingers through the beginning of his dark hair, the thick locks twirling between her fingers. Bran felt his memories as the wolf, the same strong fingers running through his fur. But her fingers didn’t leave him, they kept their caresses around his scalp; it was his twitch when her hand dared to venture down his neck that made her take herself back. He hadn’t realized his eyes had been closed until he opened them to Meera’s face. 

“Forgive me,” Meera ducked her eyes, having gotten lost in the purple flush of skin over his eyelids and dark lashes that marked his cheeks. “That was not right of me.” 

“Meera,” Bran tipped his forehead to rest against hers, feeling the heat off her skin nearly as flushed as his. “Please…I want you to.” 

“Want me to what?” she replied, although knowing full well what he meant but disbelieving she heard.

“Keep going,” He breathed. His monotone was now close to a beg, wavering with neediness. 

Meera’s face cracked wide with a grin, then it was on his lips. A first kiss. Then a second. Then a third. His belly tingled with a heat greater than his face, and as each moment they parted and reunited he felt tinder thrown upon it. 

Meera put her weight on his chair, straddling across his hips. Her lips no longer stayed on his lips, following the trail of her fingers to his ear, then neck. Bran buckled forward at her wet kiss, a noise nearly escaping his mouth. There she kept her lips, working out of her ornamental clothing to her basic undershirt. Bran’s hands, which had previously been idling awkwardly in her kiss, found themselves compelled to her body. They slipped beneigh her clothing, feeling the muscles in her back twist and flex. He knew she was strong, and beautiful, and a huntress. As his little finger dipped below her pant’s waistline, he felt her murmur against the skin on his throat.

Meera slipped her hands around his body, tugging at the binds that kept his outer shirt on. Bran’s initial hesitation was stifled as her hands peeled back his layers to his bare chest. For so long he had felt pain in his body, when the memories of Westeros came to him it was easy to abandon all sensations of himself. But when her hands dusted over a nipple, a gasp pushed past his lips. This was a pleasure that stirred past the Three-Eyed Raven, right into Bran. 

She snickered at him, “Have you never touched yourself? Felt where it was good?” 

“Not recently…” Bran said past his regaining breath as she danced her fingers over his chest. He hadn’t spent much time considering the function of his disability; he was so young when it first happened it hadn’t occurred to him it had any issue towards his ability to sire children; when he grew older he understood the issue, however, was far too concerned with surviving each day then his lineage. Still, the distractions of lust wouldn't be quelled in his dreams. 

Meera understood what he was implying, her coming to meet his face with a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry Bran… I didn’t mean to…” 

“It feels good now,” He continued, trailing after her lips. Meera noticed Bran gazing lustfully at her breasts, which hung scarcely behind her undershirt. 

“You used to stare when you were younger, too.” she smirked, her arms catching goosebumps as Bran’s fingertips slid up her sides towards them. 

“Because you’re beautiful.” His face blushed a red, then even darker when he saw Meera’s do the same. “Does it feel good to you?” 

Meera answered with a kiss; the Three-Eyed Raven was still a greenboy after all. His hands resumed their climb of her body, with each inch she kissed him deeper, until his fingertips reached the pale mounds of her breasts. As he gripped and massaged each in his hand, a moan rumbled from her throat. Tipping her head, her lips met his neck again, finding once again the spot close to his pulse that made his body twitch and grip her harder. Her hips were compelled forward, rocking against Bran’s body slowly. Through her clothes, the firmness of Bran’s leg tickled her inner thighs and pressed deep into her. 

Bran buried his face into her hair, listening to her breath come in wavering sighs. One of his hands surrendered its position on her breast, bringing itself down, down until it felt the smoothness of her stomach. He wanted to touch her; touch her as he knew a lover would touch a woman, but was overwhelmed. His hand continued slowly, as if waiting for permission, until Meera saved it with her own, guiding it downward until it pushed on the edge of her untied pant’s waist. She tipped her hips towards him, bringing to Bran’s attention her gentle thrusts against him. He brushed through the hair on her womanhood, hesitantly stroking his fingers against her. He had no wisdom as to what he was doing, despite having seen it. It was as big of a difference as watching a man ride a horse and then mounting one yourself. Still, her pushes against them provided encouragement, and Bran then felt his fingertips slip over a section of skin that drove her to a low moan against his throat. His fingers were covered in slickness. He thought back to the wolf; the sweet scent of her skin was now a taste in his mouth, a taste he could salivate over; he could imagine he still held the nose of the beast and would have been able to smell the hotness of her sex.

Meera pulled herself to his face, resting her nose against his. Even as she spoke to him, he didn’t stop his strokes. “Bran… would you like to try? I could feel you.” Even at the position she was in, she felt a bubbly sheepishness upon asking such a forward question. But that’s what made it so enjoyable.

“I don’t know what would come of it.” Bran breathed heavily. Meera caught the mark she had sucked into his skin on his neck from the corner of her eye; hopefully that wouldn’t show by morning. 

“Neither do I, but I’d like to, if you would.” 

He nodded, unsure of the shakiness of his voice if he had spoken. 

Kissing him once more, she lifted him from his chair over to the immense bed. Their bodies parted only so long as to strip to their nakedness, but Meera paused before she was completely bare. She gave bran a sidelong glance, him having finished pulling both his shirt and undershirt off; he was thin, as Meera knew, but now having not been surviving off scraps, his chest and shoulders had filled out, chest and stomach with sparse hair, as she could have guessed from his clean face. “I imagine there is little excitement to it if you’ve been able to see every deed the most beautiful women in Westeros must do.”

Bran flushed heavily, both from her searching eyes and her implication. “I don’t watch when I can help it. Besides, to know of it is different than to have known.” 

Meera smirked. She couldn’t truly be mad at him for gifts- or curses- he couldn’t control, even if it had to have proved a greater temptation than he admitted. But Bran was not a liar, and he wanted it with her, and she with him. That satisfied her enough to finish stripping off her clothing. 

Bran just watched her, hypnotized by how her skin stretched and folded with the movements of her muscles. Each was highlighted in the warm glow of the fires in his room and her hair was caught auburn red. Out of millions of things he had seen in Westeros, she was perhaps the most beautiful. 

She scooted next to him, pulling his body to her. He let her shift him so his back leaned against her chest as she sat. All her skin was pressed to him, hot and with friction as her breath gently lifted him. He thought of her breasts pressed to him, the tickling of her lips and tongue on his ear. Meera’s fingers rubbed over his chest, catching on his nipple where her thumb stayed tracing over him. From his view, he saw her other hand reach down to his hips; down until his flesh no longer felt her on him. She gripped him then, and with strokes to him she kissed his neck. 

Bran’s shoulders twitched as he gasped through his nose. Meera took the cocking of his neck as invitation, running her tongue down the side of his neck from jawline to shuddering muscles on his shoulders. She was lost in him, the little throaty moans that he tried to hold down, the dancing jerk of his stomach as she touched him. “So it feels good?” She kissed his neck, pressing her cheek to him. 

Bran nodded, moving his hand to his mouth to keep quiet but instead surging the sensations within his hips when he smelled her womanhood on his fingers. 

“Does it?” Meera asked again, her voice cooing with humor, not letting up on his growing manhood. 

“Yes,” Bran breathily answered, hastened as he watched Meera’s hand around him. His stomach was rich with a sensation he only had felt within his dreams; it didn't rest on his skin, but a sensation that pooled and boiled all over him from deep within his body. 

Against his back Meera rolled her hips, digging into the warmth in her belly. Bran searched for anything to steady himself on, grabbing onto her thigh and reaching back to tangle his fingers in her sweaty hair. He was so close to moaning, but she didn’t keep it hidden in her throat. The vibrations of her voice against his neck, the quickened pace of her strokes on him, the very air of the room seemed to tantalize over his chest, his hands touching Meera in ways he always imagined. He was not in any moment but here; no past, no future, just here in King’s Landing in love with Meera. 

That was the thought that burst through the boil in his body, and any hope for silence he had. He reached in her hand, dribbles of himself falling to his skin high enough for him to feel it on his stomach. Meera kissed his pulse on his neck as he tried to steady his breath. She couldn’t deny a tad bit of selfish pride. As she was lost in the intoxicating thoughts of her witnessing his first, Bran’s fingers knotted in her hair and he twisted around and kissed her. She fed into his pull on her, accepting his tongue as it pushed past her teeth. Her mind occupied, she was caught off guard to feel his fingers between her legs. She grabbed the sides of Bran’s face to pause in their kissing so she could fill her lungs with any air as her breath came faster. His face, his beautiful sweaty face, that now had streaks of his own seed from her hand on his cheek, was perfect enough to finish to. 

They stayed there, hot and wet with hearts slowly returning to a normal beat. Meera moved out from under him, running over her hand with a linen sheet, which she threw onto Bran when she noticed his eyes on her. “Your eyes must be sore from all your staring.” She smirked, pulling the hair back from out of her face. 

“I’m not the only one who stared,” he took the sheet, wiping himself clean. Even through his steady tone, Meera could hear the snarkiness to his words. 

“I’ll throw something else at you!” Meera raised her eyebrows, taking false offense. 

Bran saw her eyes drift over to the pile of her clothes that was thrown to the ground. Her face hardened into a less joyful expression, as if bracing herself. “Are you thinking of leaving?” He asked. Saying the familiar words pricked his throat; the flicker of Meera’s eyes told him she recognized them as well.

“I will be noticed gone…” 

Bran nodded, waiting to see if she’d continue. Instead they sat in a heavy silence. Bran thought back to their last night at Winterfell; as with most the memories in Westeros, it’s rare to realize at the time the true consequences of your actions. “I can’t make you stay. Nothing I say could make you stay when you know you’re needed elsewhere. But I have to say, as I might never get to ask again. I don’t want you to leave. I never wanted you to leave.” 

Meera’s eyes were on his, dark and shining in the firelight, and compelling more words to spill from his mouth. 

“I don’t want you to marry Lord Dory,” he said, swallowing hard. “But I hope you do, that he can make you happy everyday of your life. Make happiness common.” 

“And why can’t you do that for me?” Meera asked, leaning forward. 

Bran blinked, his eyebrows raising slightly. “I haven’t been very good at it.” Was the words he could recover from her forwardness. 

“You’ve always been able to make me happy. Even during those days beyond the Wall, when each night I thought the snow might cover us or the frost reach our bones, you could still make me happy.” As she spoke, between them and the shared darkness of their eyes was an understanding that neither could share with any other. 

“I’m not the same as I was,” Bran kept his gaze meeting hers.

“Nothing is the same as it was.” She replied with an assuredness in her voice that didn’t break the softness of her expression. “But I love you.” 

Bran became suddenly aware beat of his heart and rise of his lungs that were caged behind his ribs, each thump seeming to take hours to occur. It was as if the past of Westeros was a meager whisper as he, Bran, the Bran he had become after all these years, spoke the words he had wanted to for near as long. “I love you too, Meera.” 

Meera touched her forehead to his, feeling his fingers work through her hair as he guided a kiss to her mouth. Then another. She couldn’t keep the smile off her lips as she felt his own slight smirk against hers. His touch beckoned her down to lay beside him.

“Then what do we do now?” Bran asked.

Meera took a moment to take in his question; “What have you seen happening?” 

“What do you want to happen?” he pressed back. 

“What you want to happen isn’t always what does.” 

“Would you tell me anyway?” Bran gently leaned his head against hers as they were side by side. His voice was soft, barely more than a sweet breath against her skin. 

“I didn’t think what I wanted was possible until you came to me this winter.” Meera’s mind was a swirl of wants, obligations, desires. “Even as I was mad with you, I would still catch myself thinking of a version of a world where I wasn’t; a version where we kept spending our nights together and didn’t sleep apart. I never had a very good imagination, though.” she smirked to herself, remembering the words Jojen would complain to her.

“Good enough that you never married,” Bran remarked. “There were more suitors than just the Greenwoods, but you denied them all.” 

“I didn’t love any of them.” Meera repeated. At twenty-five years, she was long due for marriage and children, and although her father was understanding of her hesitation, she knew he was growing agitated. 

“You were waiting for me?” Bran asked, his tone suggesting a spark of playfulness beyond his monotone. 

“I was waiting for something.” she replied, pushing against his forehead. "As a girl I never liked the parts in stories where the lady would wait for the knight to come home; too dull, with not enough fighting. Imagine how mad I was to be some stupid girl waiting. I’m only glad I’m not an old maid by the time you arrived.” She chuckled. 

“I wish I had come to you sooner.” Bran's lips barely parted when he spoke, “Even when we were beyond the Wall, I had always wanted to ask you to marry me.” 

“I don’t know how I would have answered then, considering we were children and concerned with death each moment.” Meera’s words were less harsh as he took in her smile.

“And you’re answer now?” Bran asked, 

Her chest felt the same fluttering that she had on those nights when, within his sleep, he would hold onto her and pull his body tight against hers. The next morning they would not meet each other’s eyes and pretend Jojen didn’t see, but soon could only find sleep in each other’s warmth as the winds snuffed out life from any fire for the night. Like all pleasures, it was replaced with a need for survival, but didn’t fully disappear. “Do you ask because your vision have shown you?” 

“The visions show me nothing. All I know is I love you, and I want to marry you.” Bran replied, his fingers tentatively brushing between hers. “In all the memories of Westeros, there is no finer reason to wed.” 

Meera ran her hand through his thick dark hair, Bran tipping his head closer to her so their noses brushed. “Then yes, I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Bran is a fascinating character and the Neck is one of my favorite lands in Westeros, so I gotta explore that. Also Meera is criminally underrated.


End file.
